Still Remembering Dreaming
by Elemnestra Aethelflaeda
Summary: "You know that place between sleep and awake, the place where you can still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always love you, Peter Pan. That's where I'll be waiting." Tink believes. Because every hero, in every story, always returns. And she waits.
1. Part 1

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing that anyone recognises.**_

**A/N: Yeah. No comment. I watched the movie, and...felt that something was missing off the end. Or something.**

* * *

_**Still Remembering Dreaming**_

* * *

"You know that place between sleep and awake, the place where you can still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always love you, Peter Pan. That's where I'll be waiting." **Tinkerbell**

* * *

_**Part One**_

_Neverland (the land of the dreams of children; everlasting realm of youth)_

The sun was setting upon Neverland, the last rays of light winking out and fading away as it vanished below the horizon. Tinkerbell watched it disappear, and sat quietly on a branch, deep in thought. Nearly unaware of her surroundings, she was disturbed – and she did _not_ nearly fall off her perch, no matter _what_ anyone says – by the arrival of the Lost Boys, who had at long last flown back to their hide-out.

She floated lower as they landed, and watched them; a little too drained to be truly curious, the pixie was nevertheless a little intrigued by the boys' tired, almost lacklustre appearance. It wasn't what was normally seen after any victory against the pirates, let alone a victory as thoroughly decisive as this one had been. But Tink could guess why they looked so...so crestfallen, so deflated. It was for much the same reason that she herself felt woeful.

Peter had left Neverland, left _her_, had left all of them. Again. And she hadn't been able to stop him leaving, hadn't even _tried_ to stop him, but...but she had wanted him to stay, even if she had known from the beginning that he wouldn't be, not this time, and not any time ever again.

Yes, Tinkerbell could understand their sadness.

The tiny pixie surveyed her charges, those boys who were – however unofficially, however little they may acknowledge or even know it – in her care, and to a point, under her protection. Because Peter had once been one of them (and in a sense, he always would be).

'Tinkerbell?' one of the boys questioned the air, having not yet caught sight of her.

'Yes?' she replied, fluttering downwards towards them all so she was clearly visible to every one of them.

Sounding very young, the same boy said in a small voice 'Will Peter ever come back to Neverland?'

With that, it was as if a dam had broken, and the queries rushed out, from all of them, even Thud Butt, proud new leader though he was.

'Will we ever see him again?'

'If we didn't let him say goodbye, does that mean he'll be back?'

'_Can_ he come back?'

'Would it work?'

'He won't forget us, will he?'

And underlying each of the questions was a desperate plea of "_Please_, Tinkerbell, please say he'll come back, _please_ say he'll remember." And then, just as it had begun, the clamour of voices stopped, and it was quiet, the only sounds the leaves rustling above as the trees settled in for the night.

Tinkerbell could feel the weight of their eyes on her, pleading for answers, and above all, for _positive_ answers. Her gaze swept over the assembled Lost Boys, who looked – as much as they ever did, or could – downcast. Making up her mind (but really, she had already decided), Tink smiled gently, warmly, at the boys.

'He'll come back. It might seem like forever, but one day, he _will_ come back. Peter Pan is Neverland, and Neverland is Peter Pan,' she recited, beginning to grin as the familiar reckless enthusiasm reappeared on the boys' faces. 'And doesn't every hero, in _every_ story, always return just when he's needed most?'

By this point, heartened by her words, the Lost Boys were all but bouncing up and down in their new-found excitement (it hadn't taken much, had it?).

'Really?' one asked.

'Really, really?' another repeated.

Tink grinned back at them all, no longer lost in the bittersweet mood she'd felt earlier.

'Really,' she promised the boys, putting all her untarnished, pure and shining faith in her voice. 'You just have to believe.'

* * *

_Earth (known to some as the "real world")_

The sun set, and it rose, and it set, and it passed through all the stages in-between. And such actions, the brightly flaming sun sinking beneath the horizon only to reappear, were repeated many, many times, as they would continue to be repeated for years beyond counting in the time yet to come. And because time passes in unknown ways, flying and slowing, skipping and looping, but always heading inexorably forwards, and because memories are such tricky things to handle, and because a primary function of the human brain is to rationalise and explain the myths and mysticism of the world (and that of all the other worlds), events...occurred, and faded, and crystallised in memory.

Children grew into adults, and adults grew older, and time moved on, and the world moved with it. And as children aged, certain of their more unbelievable memories never quite left them, but faded in their minds, and grew slowly more unbelievable as they faded. The change from childhood to adolescence to adulthood alters the perspective, and things steadfastly believed as a child are no longer quite so firmly believed as an adolescent, nor as an adult. But the memories left with two specific children in particular, those memories stemming from their kidnap-and-subsequent-rescue, never entirely disappeared.

And the memories left in the mind of one specific adult, confirming those that had been lost as a child and then regained, never did fade. Those memories stayed, fixed solidly in place, far more solidly than they had ever been whilst they were actually being lived. And if the events in the current reality, those that had occurred only recently, if they were forgotten more easily, slipped the mind more readily? What of that? The old, true memories stayed, almost as if to make up for all those years during which they had been missing.

Time passed, and events occurred. Joy, and happiness, and love, and shock and grief and mourning. There was marriage and there were weddings, there was love and enjoyment. There was ageing and slowing reflexes and creaking joints, grey hairs and ailments that took longer to heal. There was childbirth and little grandchildren called Wendy and Aiden and Daniel, and car crashes and death and funerals.

Time moves on, and the world moves on, and people move on also. Adults grow older, and their children grow older and leave their parents behind to live their own lives. And so when the children, who are now adults themselves, move on with all their lives before them, their parents are left with much of their lives behind them. The younger look forwards while the older look backwards. And in the end, memories are nearly all that are left.

* * *

_Elsewhere (the place between dimensions, belonging to no realm)_

In a place outside both time – for a given value of _time_, anyway – and space – for a given value of _space_ – and all of those other dimensions known to humans, and many more besides that are beyond their knowledge, two beings existed together in what is generally termed peace. Relative peace, at any rate. For the most part. Normally.

The pair, whilst truly _known_ to very few, had been at least heard of by most nearly every being, in any dimension one cared to name. Their names – even those known by mortals – will not be recorded here, as it is always best not to repeat the names of such beings without due cause; they will always know it wherever and whenever their names are used. And it is always believed best not to draw their attention in any circumstances, whether the conditions surrounding be favourable or no.

At this moment, however, the two were occupied with one of their – though saying "favourite" may be a slight falsehood – but it was indeed a pastime that often occupied their days. They were watching. And, though this was not found to be such an enjoyable activity in spite of its taking up at least as much of their time, they were also waiting.

**__****tbc...**


	2. Part 2

**Disclaimer: I own nothing anyone recognises.**

* * *

_**Still Remembering Dreaming**_

_**Part Two**_

_Neverland (the land of the dreams of children; everlasting realm of youth)_

It was the innocent, curious question of one of the newest Lost Boys, who had arrived not long after Peter had left with his children, that caused Tinkerbell to catch on to something she should have realised a while ago.

'You mean Peter Pan is _real_? And he actually _lived_ here?' the boy had asked, and had then been enthusiastically answered by the other boys.

And, it had to be admitted by even the most biased observer, there was slightly more enthusiasm to those answers than there was actual true recall of events.

Tinkerbell really should have figured it out earlier, in hindsight. After all, she had lived with Peter's Swiss-cheese memory for long enough; she should have known earlier that the memory problems, though not as obvious or severe, were just the same in all the other Lost Boys.

Neverland made people forget.

Slow or fast, everyone forgot things; events they had been told, or that they had lived through, faded to near-indistinguishable murmurs in their mind, and then to nothing, the barest wisps of memory. The Lost Boys didn't forget nearly as much as Peter had, or as quickly, but they forgot all the same; they slowly and inevitably lost all but those memories that they were reminded of repeatedly, those that were continually present in their lives.

They hadn't felt his loss so strongly when Peter had left before, but then they hadn't all known him before. And now, because he had come back, and then gone again, they would know just what they had all lost; until Neverland worked its subtle magic, and they forgot. And if the boys truly forgot Peter Pan, if _Neverland_ forgot him (impossible though that may seem), then the space left empty for Peter would close. If the belief disappeared, then so would any chance of his return.

And Tink was just selfish enough to _never_ want that to happen; so she told stories.

* * *

_Earth (known to some as the "real world")_

While Sonia Adams had entirely expected, that, during her long-awaited holidays, new patients would arrive at the nursing home where she worked, it is possible – and, indeed, highly likely – that she had not quite expected a newcomer like the one she saw the day she came back to work. Although perhaps "saw" is not the right term – she _heard_ him long before she saw him, and heard _about_ him from her co-workers' gossip long before she actually met him, in the course of her job or otherwise.

But it was when she first had the duty, after her return to work, of attending the lunch period of those older men and women of Sector B that she always recalled immediately when, afterwards, she thought of the first time she saw him. She had been late, again, and hoping that no one would notice – or at least if they did notice, they wouldn't tell her supervisor, because she really didn't need to get in trouble from him yet again. When she walked swiftly, trying to regain her breath from her sprint, into the large, airy room where the senior residents of the nursing home took their lunches, the first thing she could think was that at least the supervisor wasn't there in person to check the attendance of the employees, as he had done in the past. The next thing she realised was that not a single person was likely to have noticed her abrupt, belated appearance, due to their unanimous enthrallment in other events taking place within the lunch room.

Scanning the room for someone likely to tell her just what was going on, Sonia spotted Elena, one of her closest friends at the nursing village. Elena was, it appeared, skipping out on her own lunch-time duties by way of listening just as intently as everyone else. Sonia walked quietly over to the usually-talkative red-head, who saw her coming but for once made no comment, and tapped her on the shoulder, waving a silent greeting.

'What's going on here?' Sonia whispered, trying not to distract anyone, or draw any attention.

Elena's eyes flicked over to her, back to the centre of attention in the room, and then back to Sonia. She grinned hello at her friend, and looked over at the story-teller once more, before ripping her attention away and fastening her eyes on Sonia. The red-head grabbed Sonia's arm and dragged her out of the room and around a corner, probably so no one would notice them talking – and so draw attention to the significant lack of work being carried out.

'Hey, Sonia,' she said, quietly but not in any way lacking her normal exuberance. 'Haven't you heard about it yet?'

'Sure I have, I'm just asking because I love the sound of my own voice.'

'Ha ha. Funny,' Elena said, deadpan. 'No, really, hasn't anyone told you about Mr Banning yet?'

* * *

'So, what sort of stories is he telling?' Sonia asked, genuinely curious as to what could cause everyone to become so enthralled.

'Well, you know those, those books, right?' Elena said, starting to babble again, her natural enthusiastic personality overflowing.

Sonia indicated that she, fairly enough, had no idea what books it was that her friend was talking about.

Elena elaborated. 'They're by someone-or-other Barrie. About, ah, Peter Pan. And, you know, Neverland, and Tinkerbell, and Captain Hook, and the Darlings, and-' she continued, before Sonia cut her off, knowing from experience that the redhead could go on all day otherwise.

'You mean, like "All children grow up, except one"?'

'Yeah, exactly,' Elena affirmed.

'So, what, he's retelling everyone the story of Peter Pan?' Sonia queried.

'Yes! No. Kind of,' the redhead said, making her usual facial contortions when she couldn't find the words, and trying to talk with her hands again. Surprisingly, the combination actually conveyed some meaning – to those who had grown used to the occurrence, anyway.

Elena stopped, forcibly and obviously trying to calm herself down enough to be understandable. 'He's telling bits that, you know, aren't in the book. Or books. Play. Musical. Whatever.'

'And...everyone listens to these?' Sonia asked, a few moments later.

Her friend confirmed the fact. 'Pretty much, yeah. Not Mr Taylor, but he's never any fun, is he? But besides our oh-so-honoured supervisor, then yeah, anyone who can make it listens. It gives the patients entertainment that's probably better than what we could provide, and some form of excitement in this place, and everyone knows the rough basis; and all of us lowly workers like it too. As long as we can manage it without get caught, anyway.'

'Taylor would have our heads, you mean?'

'Something like that, yeah...what's up?' Elena asked, noticing the bemused look on her quieter friend's face.

'Aren't they, you know, children's stories? How come everyone...' Sonia trailed off, not sure what she had been planning to say next.

Elena grinned. 'Well, it's obvious you haven't heard one of _his_ stories yet!' Elena subsided slightly, though she still smiled. 'And, I dunno. We just _do_ like them, and always end up wanting to hear more; they're pretty realistic, once you start listening. You know, like that suspension-of-disbelief thing. Maybe we're all still children, inside; or we want to be,' she said, beginning to outright grin again. Nothing could ever keep her spirits down – or even contained – for long. 'Cos, I mean, Mr Banning – the storyteller guy – _he_ seems an _awful_ lot like a kid sometimes. And I don't mean that in an old-person-losing-their-mind kind of way, either.'

* * *

_Neverland (the land of the dreams of children; everlasting realm of youth)_

The Lost Boys, gathered in their hideout and wearing their warmest clothes against the cold, huddled together in a rough bunch. They didn't like the cold, but it was slowly growing. Most days, nearly every day in fact, the island was as warm as it had always been, and the boys played as they always had. On those days, they forgot what was gradually happening to Neverland, but then, even when the frost forced them to remember, they didn't know why it was happening. Tinkerbell thought she knew why, though. And it was the same underlying reason that she told her stories.

'Tell us a story, Tinkerbell?' one of the boys begged the pixie.

She looked at them all, arrayed before her as they had been so many times before.

'I only know stories that are true,' she said, as she always did. 'What is it you want to hear about?'

'Peter Pan!' was the unanimous response, no less enthusiastic for having long since become ritual. 'We want to hear a story about Peter Pan!'

Tink smiled, and said to the assembled children 'Alright, Lost Boys. I'll tell you a story about the Eternal Youth, the Lord of the Never-Never, Peter Pan,' and then paused. 'Have you heard the one about the Ice King?'

* * *

_Earth (known to some as the "real world")_

It took Sonia Adams some time to realise it, but Mr Banning, of Ward 36B, was sick. Very sick, actually, a great deal more so than both his appearance and his personality suggested. His stories to the populace of the retirement home didn't cease, or slow, and his stories (and his jokes, and his laughter, and his antics) didn't lessen, not a bit.

If anything, he told more stories than he ever had, and in a shorter time, as if he was almost afraid he wouldn't be able to tell them all. That he would run out of time before he finished his stories, or that he would forget them. Or maybe as if he thought that the stories themselves would be forgotten and lost if they were not told.

Of course, Sonia thought to herself, she could have just been projecting that; just because she had only just found out about his sickness didn't mean that it hadn't always been there. It didn't mean anything, except that now she knew that...well, now she knew, in a decidedly more definite manner than she had before, that one day soon the seemingly ceaseless stories, that she sometimes thought _must_ come from a place other than simply his own imagination, would come to an end, and stop.

And it would be one day soon, she knew; she wasn't sure of the specifics – didn't _want_ to be sure, because who would want that? – but it would be soon, because no one that sick could last for long, whatever they looked like on the outside. No matter how loved they were, or how entertaining, or how young they sometimes still seemed.

And because everyone dies, in the end, and if Sonia hadn't wanted to know about that, then she had clearly chosen the wrong line of work. _Everything has its time, and everything dies,_ she thought, and then shivered. _Where had that come from?_ She hadn't thought it, had she? _Maybe._

_Ashes to ashes, dust to dust..._

Sonia blinked, and refocused on the house keys in her hand, and the lock in front of her. She fumbled the key into the lock, pushed open the door, and stepped inside. She resolved to delve into her emergency rations of chocolate, and to stay well away from the emergency alcohol. She didn't need her thoughts becoming any more disturbing than they already were.

* * *

_Neverland (the land of the dreams of children; everlasting realm of youth)_

If Tinkerbell believed in anything, then she believed in Peter Pan. After all, hadn't he come back (even if she had needed to drag him), with his memory as tatty as ever, and hadn't they – he – still managed to defeat Hook regardless? And she still believed in him now.

So she wasn't _giving up_, not that. _That_ would be a betrayal. And Tink wasn't a traitor, and she especially wasn't a traitor to Peter. But...it had been so _long_. And so many Lost Boys had come and gone in that time. Oh, Tink knew that time passed differently here, and was lost between the dimensions as it flowed between them, and was only very rarely synchronised with the flow of time on Earth. It was a given fact that the realms never quite run true to each other. And so Peter was still, probably, alive out there, somewhere. And Neverland was still here, which made her think that true; but the island was fading, slowly. The days were getting colder, and winter was drawing near. And Tink didn't want this to be a winter from which Neverland would never wake.

But she was _sure_ that her hopes were not in vain, that there was still a possible future in which her beliefs (and her wish) could come true. She was _sure_. Peter was still alive, out there, on Earth, and so _surely_ there was still...surely there was still a chance he could come back.

But then, sometimes, she couldn't help but think that maybe she was wrong, maybe she was basing her beliefs on false assumptions. Tink couldn't help but sometimes let the wandering thought cross her mind that she was holding out for a future that would never come. That she would never see that for which she yearned. That the bleak future contained no more than a barren Neverland, growing colder and colder with the consistent non-return (she still, even on these dark days, steadfastly refused to even think the word "death") of the Eternal Youth, the island simply unable to cope, shrivelling and dying. The magic dwindling away to nothing.

But she couldn't think that, and she didn't, not really. Not unless she really couldn't help it, and not often, because she believed in Peter. She _knew_ he would return.

_Doesn't every hero, in every story, always return just when he's needed most?_

The thing about belief magic is, if someone really, truly, honestly believes, then that belief will almost certainly, given the right circumstances, come true. Dreams will coalesce into reality and become manifest. But if the belief fades before those circumstances appear, then such hopes will never be true, no longer suspended by the will of those who believe. And in this case, the belief was more than necessary. And the manifestation of those hopes was far more than merely vital.

**__****tbc...**


	3. Part 3

**Disclaimer: I own nothing anyone recognises.**

_**Still Remembering Dreaming**_

_**Part **__**Three**_

_Elsewhere (the place between dimensions, belonging to no realm)_

The pair of beings occupying the place between realms performed the actions equivalent to blinking, yawning, and stretching the kinks out of their joints. Of course, it wasn't quite the same action as it would have been had it been taken by a mortal human, but it filled the same niche. Thoughts were passing through their minds, quicksilver streams of consciousness, far more – it could be argued – efficient than the same process in a human brain. This being true or not, the beings shared many of their thoughts, whether dreamt up individually or not.

_Everything has its time, and everything dies_. But it was not the time for _this _mortal to pass from this current existence to the next, not yet. Not just now, and not for a good while yet (all things being favourable).

The pair of immortal, unearthly beings came to a decision; or rather, they reached the point where a decision made long ago only now came into immediate effect.

It was time for the circle to join its ends, for the end to meet the beginning, for dusk to meet dawn. It was time for despair to meet hope, for anguish to bloom into jubilation.

Through an act of pure, untainted will, the two individuals activated the ancient net of accumulated magics, the web that had been put into place an eternity ago, in case of mishap, or in case of the precise set of circumstances – circumstances predicted long ago, along with the exact probability of the occurrence of such – that were now unfolding in the world viewed by the pair.

It was time for a renewal, for a rebirth.

Life flowed on, and intertwined with it, travelled some of the oldest forces in all the known dimensions. Magic, and hope, and faith, and prayer, and belief. And, because it can never be truly denied, not by a single being that was ever born or created, but only temporarily avoided, death also flew on silent wings.

And the pair of beings watched, and they waited, patiently, knowing that all things must happen sometime and they had but to wait to see their actions come into effect. Actions that they had always known would be taken, whatever thoughts, whatever contradictions, may have once whisked across their minds in the space of less than a nanosecond.

Because realms that have been forsaken, even temporarily, by their monarchs are never the same. Because abandoned children need someone to lead them, and because children are always able to tell when something is missing, even when they don't know just what it is. Because heroes always return, just when they are needed most.

And because even otherworldly, unearthly, supernatural, paranormal beings, hailing from a dimension that is neither here nor there, enjoy a happy ending.

* * *

_Earth (known to some as the "real world")_

The room was all but quiet, hushed voices not daring to speak above a whisper, and the restless movements of limbs gone to sleep suffering in silence through the accompanying pins and needles, not daring to create disturbance. Yawns, growing increasingly common as the evening wore on, were stifled by pale, oft-shaking hands, their owners not wishing disrespect but unable to prevent the signs of exhaustion.

The watch of the family members that the room contained looked to be on the verge of becoming a vigil, extending throughout the night. At that thought, the room's inhabitants could not help but feel a brief flicker of disappointment, immediately extinguished by remembrance of what the end of the vigil would mean.

The single doctor was present only for the purpose of formality, there being no cure for old age. Individuals would at intervals vacate the room, returning with a great relief of pressure on the bladder, or with a new round of coffee, or with quickly transferred information as to the status of various young children. But on the whole, the room was undisturbed by noise.

The sun had set, and the atmosphere had long since settled into a sense of serene calm, patiently awaiting the inevitable, when the figure laying weakly on the bed stirred. Looking disturbingly frail, he didn't quite wake, but his eyelids fluttered, and his hand, resting on the blanket, crept briefly, haltingly, into the air before flopping limply back down. Even that slight movement attracted the entirety of the available attention, a few eyes flitting towards the doctor, who merely shook his head.

_He's not waking; not coming out of it_.

The old man in the bed didn't move again, his chest moving up and down, incrementally providing proof of continued existence, second by second, breath by breath. No one else moved, hardly dared to breathe, listening tensely to the rasping sounds of the old man clinging to life, all former calm fled. In and out, in and out, the air went, in his nose, down his trachea, into his lungs and passing through the alveoli into his bloodstream, and all the way back out. Up and down his chest moved, tiny fractions of movement.

Up and down, in and out, up and down, in and out. Mesmerising. In and out, up and down. The tiny little flutters continued, somehow managing to find the strength.

And then they didn't.

* * *

_Neverland (the land of the dreams of children; everlasting realm of youth)_

At much the same time, or near enough, in a dimension just the other side of morning, something of the opposite nature was occurring. A new Lost Boy was opening his eyes. And yet, he wasn't new at all, really, but, somehow, more like the original.

And Tinkerbell felt a fragile, long-silent bond flicker into vibrant life. Her eyes filled with hope, and faith, and an absolute, wonderful certainty.

'Peter!'

**-end-**


End file.
